The spilling of wine
by Archaeologist
Summary: Arthur would do whatever it took to make Merlin smile again.


**Warnings**: spoilers for season 2  
**Disclaimer**: The tv show, _Merlin_, and the show's characters do not belong to me. They are the property of Shine and BBC. This is not for profit.

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Mouth hovering over mine, the smell of wine and warm sweat and lust mingling hot and frantic as he breathed desperation into the air.

This was a Merlin I'd not seen before. He'd always been a lightweight and knowing that, he'd stayed away from the stronger spirits, or else hidden away once he'd taken a drink or two, as if he were ashamed… or afraid of showing me his heart unguarded.

It had been too long. Merlin had grown weary, grown silent after the dragon had died, after that dragonlord had pulled tears from him and it was almost more than I could stand. The silence. The looks of misery he'd shoot into the night air when he thought I wasn't looking. Turning away, turning inward as he went through his duties, a living ghost.

It could not stand. I would not stand for it. Merlin silent was unnatural, as twisted and confusing as any magical beast; his chatter had always been a constant, and now the silence only showed how very unbalanced it all was.

I suppose it was partially my fault. I'd often told him to shut up or tried to cut off his natural talent for absurdity whenever I felt pressured to be the prince, forced to wear duty like a cloak, chafing at responsibilities that were already grinding me into my father's likeness. I'd taken it out on Merlin, admittedly unfairly although I'd never tell him that.

So when the opportunity to get him spectacularly drunk, enough that the wall he'd erected might crumble and let my amusing idiot reappear, let my friend return, I had to take it. I'd had enough of silence.

My room was warm and he's loosened his shirt, dropped that grotty neckerchief somewhere when his eyes had glazed over, giggling at something only he could find amusing, wine cup spilling onto my clothes. He'd reached for me then, clucked like some kind of deranged caricature of a manservant and started removing my tunic. Insisted on it.

I let him. His face was sweeter, more relaxed, alternately berating me, slurring his words although I could make out prat easily enough or grinning like the fool he was. A return of the man I missed and it filled me with a warmth I'd not known in months.

Throwing my shirt over his head, he reached for my breeches but this wasn't about him serving me but getting him to relax, to enjoy himself again. I pushed him away, snorting as he stumbled back and he sent me another grin, more feral now, more insistent. Standing there a moment, swaying, drunk and happy and so very Merlin.

I'd expected him to turn away, reach for more wine or else sit down, beaming like the fool he was and start snoring the minute his head hit the table. But instead, weaving and muttering about too many clothes, he began tearing off his shirt, sending the ruined thing into the dusty corner already heaped high with discarded trash. Staggered forward, his hand reaching to steady himself. Giggling as only he could.

The daft idiot. I'd thought to get him to open up and tell me what was wrong but I should have known better. Merlin and expectations were never in the cards.

His hands hit my chest with a thump and they rested there, warm and firm, curling a little. Merlin frowned suddenly, staring at his fingertips splayed out over my skin and then looked up, questions in his eyes. Impossibly intense, pushing the heels of his palms into muscles there, his thumbs busy playing with chest hair and the darkened nipples already peaked with interest under his hands.

I'd not planned it, thought it was only to find my old friend again but this was more than friendship, more than a simple chance to reconnect. The rush of heat between us was almost unbearable and I pushed him back again, grabbing onto his wrists, holding him away and captive.

More expectations shattered.

His smile turned savage and he leaned down, nosing into the drying wine staining my skin, tasting it, tasting me.

Gods above, I swear I'd not planned this. My voice cracked as I backed up, cool stone against my skin as I hit the wall and I tried to shove him away again, babbling about honour and how different he'd see all this when he was sober. But he shook his head and smiled, hungry, untamed, finally unguarded.

His mouth hovered above mine, hands hot on my shoulders, burning me, branding me. He was hard at my hip and I too was already aching. I thought a single kiss, just one and it would be enough to satisfy him and we'd deal with the consequences in the morning, perhaps ignore the passion between us in the light of day.

We'd always been good at denial.

The kiss was wet, wild, as untamed as any I'd ever experienced and Merlin seemed frantic, almost as if he wanted to bury himself in me and never come out again. I tried one last time to stop him but his hands were immovable, hot shackles that bound me as captive as any iron could.

He began to sink down, muttering a frenzied plea as he mouthed skin, tasting and taking, his lips marking me and oh how I wanted this. Ached for it, filling my universe with such longing there were no words.

But if I allowed this, let him take me or I him, when tomorrow came, the silence would be forever unbreakable. A loss I could not, would not endure, not for a single night's drunken pleasure.

I forced him back up, whispered of longing and naked passion and soft beds, nodded toward my own. He took the bait, half-staggered toward it, pulling me along, not letting go, never letting go. Spreading sloppy kisses into my mouth, still sweet with wine and lust but slower now as sleep began to drag him into oblivion.

Falling backwards, tripping into fine covers and pillows, still his hand was tight against my skin. He drew me down, smiling, whispering, worshiping my name, his lips seeking mine again as if he were pouring adoration into me, every breath, every beat of his heart binding himself to my will. But his eyes were closed and the words slurred into sleep.

The ache was still there, still hard and hot and I wanted to shake him, wake him up again and take what he'd offered. How I wanted that.

But as I watched him breathe, loose limbed and unguarded, at long last the Merlin I remembered, I realized what I truly wanted from him wasn't drunken lust but trust, a passion freely given and a love shared between us that would last a lifetime and beyond.

And I knew that we'd be having a talk in the morning.


End file.
